


Bella's Bakery

by DinoDina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Bakery, F/M, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 01:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinoDina/pseuds/DinoDina
Summary: Bellatrix leaves Voldemort, receives flowers, goes to therapy, and debates color theory.





	Bella's Bakery

Bellatrix knelt and listened. She knew the wisdom would be invaluable, that to miss a single word would be disastrous. But the minutes passed and the Dark Lord kept talking, and Bellatrix's legs stiffened upon the cold floor, a chill settled into her palms where she leaned on her arms, and her mind began to wander. With a small gasp, Bellatrix moved to follow her thoughts, but her legs had cramped and her arms were clumsy, and she hadn't moved an inch.

The Dark Lord was talking about Harry Potter.  _Infinite wisdom, indeed!_

She leaned away and bit back another sigh—he hadn't heard the first or she would already have been punished. _Harry Potter again_. One day, the Dark Lord would defeat the boy and she would never have to hear the name again.

In bad spirit, Bellatrix considered for a moment that the boy would defeat the Dark Lord—and  _good_. No more 'Potter-this' and 'Potter-that' and—

She chanced a glance up at her Lord.

Nothing.

His usual ability to read her most intimate thoughts—despite often leading to punishment for her insolence—had failed him. Bellatrix turned away, clenching her jaw; if it had been anyone else ignoring her, they'd be dead by now.

She glared at the woman to the Dark Lord's right. The woman, with her simpering smile and flawless robes, bright pink against the dark sea of Death Eaters—Bellatrix felt the evil coming off her in waves much more than from any of her true peers.  _Dolores Umbridge_. The name passed through her mind like the rat Pettigrew passed through her brother-in-law's kitchen. Unnecessary. Dirty.

Hatred curled Bellatrix's lower lip, but the Dark Lord didn't notice. There had been a time where he would have killed the Umbridge woman just because Bellatrix wanted it.

Not anymore.

"And Potter—" she caught him say again, egged on by Umbridge's proper nodding.

A tremor passed through her body and Bellatrix's mouth opened of its own brazen accord: "I've fallen in love with a Muggle!"

The Death Eaters at her sides cringed away from her, fearing the Dark Lord's wrath for their proximity, her own wrath at them for overhearing. Bellatrix imagined a chill setting over the room, the darkness engulfing her, and the Dark Lord looming over her to administer his final punishment; she would see his face as she died, and would be all the happier.

When, instead, all she heard was his continuing conversation with the Umbridge woman, Bellatrix threw her hands up and walked out, leaving the door open behind her, though not expecting the gentle footsteps that followed.

Her wand was out lest the follower would threaten to tell of her outburst, but the only opponent it met was her husband's chest.

"Oh." Bellatrix let it fall. "It's you."

"I'll always follow you." Rodolphus's face fell in comic imitation of her wand's movement, and his voice was subdued. "Bellatrix, you're not really—"

"Leave me."

"Please!"

The cry stopped her in her tracks quicker than if he'd grabbed her arm. (Rodolphus would never grab her arm; would never take away her power like that.)

"Did you really fall in love with a…" Bellatrix heard his lip curl. "A Muggle?"

"Of course not." She scoffed. "As if I would ever associate myself with those—"

She cut herself off before her voice broke. Bellatrix had always been volatile, had always taken pride in the strength of her emotions, in her capacity to bear their weight. But the knowledge that Rodolphus had followed her out… Rodolphus, who she hadn't had a real conversation with in months, who had always stood back to let her fully exercise her power, who had heard her proclaim fictional love to a Muggle and hadn't turned away in shame and hatred… It was Rodolphus who had followed her out, not the Dark Lord.

And that hurt the most.

"Bellatrix," he said, and for the first time, offered his hand. "Are you unhappy?"

"Unhappy?" The rage rose inside her like a curse, ready to tear out at a moment's notice, to fly over him for even daring to suggest such a thing. Then it sank, and so did her shoulders. "Yes."

Rodolphus settled into step beside her, and Bellatrix hardly noticed as they started walking down the long hall, away from the Death Eaters, away from the Dark Lord. The realisation would have made her pause if not for one thought: the Dark Lord was still talking about Potter.

"I know a good Muggle village we can terrorise," Rodolphus whispered in her ear, kissing it softly as they turned a corner. "How's that sound?"

"Fun." Bellatrix looked down at the marble floor, her own face reflected in it. She leaned onto her husband's shoulder. "But exhausting. Let's go back to the Manor?"

Rodolphus had always followed her without question. Their courtship had been brief and arranged, but she'd never heard of a single affair, had never experienced a moment of discomfort—save for Azkaban, of course. He'd brought her flowers, once: roses. Bellatrix didn't like roses.  _Too prickly_. She didn't like anything that could hurt her.

" _Lavenders,"_  she'd said when Rodolphus had tentatively begged for forgiveness.

She woke to them in a vase on the vanity on the other end of the bedroom the next day, illuminated in the slivers of sunlight that managed to come through the closed curtains. If she could get her hands on the person who had designed the bedroom windows facing East…

But nevermind that now. Rodolphus still sleeping, Bellatrix crept out of bed and buried her face in the bouquet.

* * *

Bellatrix listened, her eyes closed and her hands neatly folded in her lap. The woman's voice ebbed and flowed above her, but Bellatrix couldn't make out the words. She didn't want to. They weren't as captivating as the Dark Lords, weren't as gentle and convincing as her husband's. This woman was  _nothing_!

Bellatrix jolted out of her stupor and shook her head. This woman was  _not_  nothing.

"Bellatrix?"

She blinked. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

Her lips twitched in an imitation smile. "Yes."

The woman smiled back and kept talking. Bellatrix kept listening—trying to listen. But the words weaved into one another. Pointless words, like 'kindness' and 'empathy' and 'compassion'. Words that only a… Bellatrix clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking; she was itching for her wand, for a curse to cast upon the unsuspecting woman.

She was still talking. Saying words that only a therapist could say.

And how easy it was for her to say them! How easy for her to believe in them.

Bellatrix never backed down, and that was the only reason she was still there. She would have killed the woman, burned the building to the ground, and danced upon the ashes, drunk on hatred and love and the beauty of destruction.

It had been several months already. Her hands shook when she was angry, but her hair was no longer frizzy and limp. It now framed her face, which was lighter and less burdened. She was frequently assaulted with her old desires—destruction, despair—but for all her reluctance, the therapist was helping.

She hadn't killed or maimed anyone since leaving the Dark Lord.  _Leaving the Dark Lord_. That was a… well, it was a statement Bellatrix had never considered before.

"Bellatrix?"

She blinked. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

Her lips twitched into a smile. "Yes."

She crossed her legs and leaned forward, brushing the creases out of her dress as she did so. Robes reminded her of Death Eaters—more than that, robes were physically constricting, and if there was one thing Bellatrix hated, it was being constricted.

Her therapist knew that, too, after all these months—the very idea of a therapist had seemed absurd at first!—and it was only a few more minutes before they exchanged smiles again.

"I think we'll leave it here for this week."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." The woman nodded confidently. "Besides, you're getting the building today. You've been working up to this independence for a long time, Bellatrix, and to combining your passions."

Bellatrix let her smile spread over her face at that. It felt like a grotesque mask on her skin, but she  _knew_  it was real; years of refusing to smile in true happiness had disfigured the emotion, but that didn't make it any less real.

They rose together and Bellatrix let the therapist open the door for her. She didn't look at her feet as she walked, but in hindsight—

"It's like a beehive in here!" she cried, her eyes widening as she took in the waiting room that proudly presented itself.

Rodolphus was right in the middle of the commotion, papers and magazines flying around him, soot on his face and hands; Rabastan, facing him, was grinning and holding his unexploded playing cards.

He shrugged. "At least I won."

Rodolphus glared even as he stood to offer his hand to Bellatrix. "I'll get you next time."

Bellatrix couldn't help a short laugh. Rodolphus was just as likely to win at Exploding Snap as he was to wake up before midday. She reached up on her tiptoes and lightly kissed his singed cheek. "At least clean it up before we go."

* * *

The cobbled street was uneven and the houses jutted out roughly over it, blocking the sunlight and creating a labyrinth of shadows from the haphazard drying lines; Bellatrix looked up and took it in. The first time she'd visited the street—one of the smaller Wizarding shopping centres—she hadn't been sure what to think. It wasn't dingy, just… Bellatrix frowned. She just wasn't used to it yet.

Well, that would change.

She stood back and looked at her building. The facade was clean and the windows open wide to allow for the drying of the paint on the inside walls. She crossed her arms and looked at it.

_Bella's Bakery_

The simple wooden sign above the door had what her therapist called a 'homey feel'. She still wasn't sure exactly what it meant, but she liked it it: it was warm, welcoming. The letters were large and overbearing everything all the other signs on the street, but that wasn't Dark—it was business.

Business and baking: industries that could be so ruthless, combining them rivaled a career with the Death Eaters. She couldn't wait to start.

Bellatrix tilted her head. It was her bakery and it was going to be perfect, but it couldn't  _be_  perfect unless the sign was.

"Pink."

"Excuse me?" Bellatrix blinked at Rodolphus, who had just come out of the building, his shirt and sleeves covered in paint.

"Pink, you heard me." Rodolphus took a step back and spread his arms in a dramatic gesture. "It's clearly the best color for the sign."

" _Pink_?" she echoed finally, shaking herself out of the sudden shock. "You're insane. It's not even a real color! Besides, that woman uses it— _that_  woman, the one who—"

Bellatrix broke off there and clenched her fists. Her hands were shaking. She swallowed and turned around to pace away the nervous energy. She took another breath and let her hands relax. "I don't like pink."

Rodolphus smiled at her as she came near. "I know you don't."

Her upper lip curled in confusion. "So why—"

"You want it to be purple."

"I do." The realization caused her mouth to fall open; the second realization—not even a realization, not really, because she'd  _known_  that Rodolphus  _loved_  her—caused her to rise onto her toes and kiss him.

It was going to be perfect. And purple.

Rabastan came out of the building, using his wand to siphon off the paint that covered him. He made a face—he always made a funny face when he saw Bellatrix and his brother together—and looked up at the sign with a grin. "So… green?"


End file.
